


Equidistant

by SailorChibi



Series: Slave AU [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Ownership, Panic Attacks, Protective John, Slave Trade, Slave!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-09 17:22:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3258131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is coming to terms with the fact that rehabilitation doesn't happen over night; it's a two steps forward, ten steps back process. It turns out that overprotecting can be just as bad as under-protecting. This is how they all attempt to find a happy medium.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part 4 of the Slave AU, commissioned by anon, this time with two chapters. It was sooooo hard to certain parts of this chapter out, and I really do not know why. And I feel like it's a bit all over the place, but that it makes sense to be that way right now.
> 
> Equidistant means [equally distant](http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/equidistant).

So far what John has learned about Sherlock is this: he likes watching talk shows, drinking tea, and eating Mrs Hudson's homemade biscuits. He doesn't like sleeping, the cat that lives next door, or cilantro. He likes stealing John's bathrobe to wear over a pair of boxers, but never wears shoes. He thinks that romances are silly but doesn't mind documentaries, particularly the medical sort John usually leaves on at night. He doesn't like silence.

These are the little individual bits and pieces that make up the whole of Sherlock right now, and John cherishes every single one of them. He believes that they are to be coaxed into existence and fiercely coddled at all costs. Finding out something new is easily the best part of his day, because it's one more step away from the outwardly defiant but inwardly terrified slave that he brought home with him.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock has a taste of chocolate cake for the first time. He's become very adept at this over the past weeks, because Sherlock will not try something if he knows he's being watched. Scrutiny seems to put too much pressure on him, so that he retreats into himself like a frightened tortoise, desiring the punishment for not trying whatever it was over the punishment for not making the right choice.

"What did you think?" John asks carefully once a few bites of the cake are gone, keeping his expression blank and his voice friendly. Leaving no hints for Sherlock to pick up on as to whether his opinion should be good or bad.

Still, Sherlock looks to him first. He hesitates for a very long moment, eyebrows drawing together in true consternation as he deliberates. John lets him, knowing better than to try and rush him along. It's nearly impossible to teach a slave that they're allowed to not only form their own opinions but to share them, but he's not going to give up. Not on Sherlock.

Finally, Sherlock says, "Good?"

John nods. "Mrs Hudson makes excellent cake," he agrees, hiding the familiar pang of sadness when Sherlock visibly sags in relief at having had the right answer. He's pretty sure that Sherlock doesn't actually like the taste of chocolate all that much. His eyes don't light up the way that they do at the taste of vanilla. But putting a piece of vanilla cake beside a piece of chocolate cake and asking him to choose one would just be cruel. Sherlock's not ready for that yet.

"Indeed I do," Mrs Hudson says, bustling into the room. She beams when she sees that Sherlock's halfway through eating a piece of her cake. "What would you boys like for dinner tonight? I've got a lovely roast I could pop in the oven."

"You don't need to do that," John says weakly, licking his lips at the thought of a roast. He feels awful for admitting it, but he's benefitted in more than one way from having Sherlock here. For one thing, Mrs Hudson apparently thinks he's incapable of feeding the both of them. She now supplies the majority of their meals, including a snack most afternoons that John is home. Probably even if he wasn't.

He's not certain where she's getting the funds from because she refuses to tell him, but he suspects the initials are M and H.

"I know that, dear, but I've been dying to cook that roast for a while now." She pats him on the shoulder absently, then lovingly strokes her hand across Sherlock's head. Sherlock leans into the touch like a greedy kitten, looking up at her adoringly.

John is also pretty sure he has been replaced as Mrs Hudson's favourite. He can't find it in himself to mind.

"Then that sounds wonderful, Mrs Hudson. I look forward to it. Unfortunately, Sarah asked me if I could meet with her this morning. I think she wants to find out when I'm planning to come back to work." He stands up and reaches for dishes, only to have his hands be swatted away by Mrs Hudson. She clucks her tongue at him and he backs off with a grin.

"And when are you? Going back to work?" Mrs Hudson asks.

That's the million dollar question. John shrugs, avoiding an answer because he hasn't got one yet, and turns to look at Sherlock. "I shouldn't be gone long. An hour at the most. Will you be okay?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, so quickly that John knows he hasn't thought about his answer, and it's not surprising but it is disappointing. 

Sherlock isn't comfortable staying in the flat by himself. One morning, John woke up early and crept downstairs to Mrs Hudson's for a cup of tea. He returned a couple of hours later to find Sherlock huddled in the corner behind the sofa, face shuttered and eyes blank, his head shielded but his back offered up for the whip. It had taken the rest of the day to persuade him that it was alright to come out, and John still doesn't know what it was that Sherlock was so frightened of.

He hates doing this, but he and Mrs Hudson have agreed that it's important for Sherlock to get used to being on his own. Sooner or later John really will have to go back to work, and that means spending whole days away from the flat. It's not even an option to have Sherlock come along with him; the world outside is vast and too overwhelming for a slave who is more used to a cage and routine. 

So every day he makes a little excuse to leave, even if it's just for a minute or two. Sarah really did call him to meet for a quick cup of tea, and, even though he'd rather not go, it's as good of an excuse as anything and it means that he can be gone a little longer without it seeming too suspicious. Still, he hesitates, looking at Sherlock and wondering if they're doing the right thing. How can they be sure that they're handling this properly? What if they're just screwing him up even more?

"It's okay, John. I'll be right here," Mrs Hudson says, interrupting his thoughts. She steps around the coffee table and hands him his coat. "I thought that instead of Sherlock staying up here today, he might like to come downstairs to my flat for a visit."

Sherlock straightens, looking pleased. He's been down to Mrs Hudson's flat before, though always with John, and he seems to like it down there. "Yes, I want to."

"Good. Now off you go." She raises her eyebrows, as though to say 'see? we'll be fine' and John concedes. He shrugs on his coat, says a quick goodbye and grabs his cane on the way out the door.

It's a fine morning for once and he pauses on the pavement, turning to look back at 221b Baker Street. He looks forward to the day when Sherlock will feel comfortable walking in and out of that door on his own, without John or someone else at his side. But he also thinks that day is going to be a long time in coming. Sherlock doesn't even shower without asking for permission first.

"You're being an idiot," Sarah says to him not twenty minutes later.

John shoots her an offended look over his menu, which he's only glancing at as a way to fill the silence. He's not really hungry, but Sarah's scrutiny makes him uncomfortable. "Do you always invite your employees out for tea and then insult them?"

"Only when they're being stupid. John, look, Sherlock's not - he's not a _duckling_ for you to mother around. Okay, he's imprinted on you, and I know you want to protect him as much as you can, but you can't keep making decisions about when he's ready for something. Part of the rehabilitation process for slaves involves letting them make mistakes and learning that there won't be a punishment, just consequences like what every other normal human being would face."

His scowl deepens. He hasn't forgotten that this is technically all Sarah's fault in the first place for keeping him at work so late. "So you think I should just open up the door and tell him to go ahead when I know it will end horribly?"

"If that's what he wants."

"That's the problem. Sherlock never _says_ what he wants," John snaps. "He can't. He doesn't know how."

"Well he's never going to learn if you keep making the decisions for him," Sarah says pleasantly, getting to her feet and taking his menu away. She walks up to the counter and orders tea for both of them, returning to the table a couple of minutes later with two steaming cups. She hands one to John and sits down with her own, blowing gently.

He stares down at his tea and slowly adds milk until it turns the right colour. Sarah watches him patiently, waiting for him to speak, but words aren't coming easily. He'd thought he was doing good, but is she right? Is he being too protective of Sherlock? Should he have asked Sherlock to come along with him to meet Sarah? Only it's hard when Sherlock looks so vulnerable, like he thinks at any moment that John's going to change his mind and send him back to the Den.

"What do you think I should do?" he asks finally, taking a sip of tea. It's not nearly as good as Mrs Hudson's.

"I don't know. I can't say that I've ever been in your position. I haven't even met Sherlock. I'm just telling you this based off of what I've read over the years," she replies, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "I know your natural inclination is to make sure that nothing else hurts him. God knows he's been hurt enough. But I'm just not sure if that's wise. You can't be there with him all the time."

"I'm hardly going to abandon him!"

Sarah holds up a hand. "I didn't say you were. But I am assuming that you plan to come back to work at some point, yes? You can't stay home with him forever is what I'm getting at, and you can't expect him to stay cooped up inside the flat all day, either. Sooner or later Sherlock is going to have to go outside, and I would think he'd feel better about it happening if you or someone he trusted were with him the first few times. Don't turn your flat into another cage for him."

Her words strike a lot deeper than he wants to admit, and his hand trembles a little when he lifts his tea to his mouth. "So I should stop being overprotective, is what you're saying. Step back more."

"Don't overwhelm him," Sarah says, gentler now. "I get what you're saying when you talk about how he's not ready for certain things. That makes sense. But don't let _your_ concerns hold _him_ back. I'm telling you this not just as your friend, but as a doctor." She suddenly becomes very focused on stirring her tea. "I've had my fair share of patients who did things before I thought they were ready for it. Sometimes they weren't sure how to communicate with me that they were ready, so they just went ahead and did it. Sometimes that ultimately caused setbacks. Part of Sherlock's rehabilitation should at least involve talking to him, not just playing a guessing game based on instinctive, learned reactions that he can't control."

Listening to her talk, John starts to feel a bit foolish. And also, surprisingly, fond. Until now he's never really seen Sarah as anything other than a doctor, his employer, who occasionally tries to hit on him because he flirted with her a bit when he started. But she's a lot more, it seems. He offers her a smile. "How did you get to be so smart?"

"Too much practice," she says with a quick, self-deprecating grin. "Like I said, I've made mistakes. If someone else can learn from them, I must as well share the knowledge. You seem... happier since you took Sherlock home with you."

"The flat's not so empty," John says honestly, which is true. It's a breath of fresh air to know that Sherlock will be at home when he gets there, that he won't be walking into a set of empty rooms. Not only that, but it's someone who is perfectly content watching trash on the telly and eating Chinese take away, who doesn't expect John to be anything other than what he is.

Sarah nods, setting her cup down. She puts her hand out, letting it rest lightly on top of his. "If you ever need a break, or just someone to chat with, don't hesitate to call me," she says meaningfully. "I'm sure Mrs Hudson would be willing to stay with Sherlock for a while if you wanted to go out for a little bit longer. Or maybe even when you've discussed with Sherlock that you're going to be gone for the night, give him some space, and you need a place to stay..." Her index finger slips into the sleeve of his shirt, soft and teasing.

He swallows, amazed by how much that simple touch is affecting him. He hasn't been touched like that for a long time. "I'll... I'll let you know. How is, um, the surgery making out?"

Her friendly smile widens, not at all phased by the change in subject, and she squeezes his wrist before pulling back. It's like her offer never happened as she says, "It's been busy, but not too bad. Honestly, most of the appointments lately have been spring colds and pregnancies. And I think Mendel might be pregnant, though she hasn't said anything yet."

"Really?" His eyebrows lift and he instantly starts to think about what that could mean for him and Sherlock, an opportunity to have up to a year of dedicated work instead of the odd hours he tends to work now. 

"Yeah. Though like I said, nothing's been confirmed. I think she's keeping it under the wire until she finds out whether her husband has been cheating on her."

"Sarah!"

"What?" 

"That's an awful thing to say."

"It's true," Sarah says, shrugging one shoulder. "God knows she shouldn't whine about it in the middle of the staff room if she doesn't want people to know. You should've seen her yesterday morning, John. I had to take on the rest of her patients because she couldn't stop asking the men if they were happily married and then going off on them if they didn't answer in a way she liked."

John bites his lip to keep his composure, but the twinkle in Sarah's eyes is too much and they both start laughing. The rest of the hour passes by much faster than he anticipated. Sarah is not only genuinely funny, but she's warm and open and it's a shock to realize that he actually enjoys spending time with her. He can't remember the last time he went out with someone, not just a pretty woman, and actually had fun. It was before the war, easily, and suddenly he's not sure why he always turned down her invitations before. Why had he thought that her hitting on him around the office was so bad?

He ponders that as Sarah leans back, stretches, and says she has to be getting back, and manages to clamber to his feet in time to help her slip her coat on. Up close, he catches a quick whiff of her perfume. It's very subtle, because some of the patients who come into the office are sensitive, but it smells of flowers and a hint of citrus. It actually smells very nice. He inhales again without thinking, blushing a bit when he realizes that she's staring at him with a small smile. Did she notice? God, this used to be so much easier. He almost feels like telling her that he never used to be so out of sorts around women.

"Thanks," he says instead, not wanting to be fired. "I'll let you know when I'm ready to come back. I don't think it'll be too long. I'm going to try letting Sherlock make some more decisions soon. I thought about what you said and you're right. Maybe I am being too protective."

She pats him on the arm. "Don't beat yourself up about it. After the life Sherlock has lived, I'm sure that he needs some coddling now and again. He's really fortunate that he ended up with you, John."

'I suppose," John says, because sometimes he does wonder. Oh, he knows that he treats Sherlock infinitely better than his past masters. But it would be so much better if Sherlock were free, if he didn't need to wear the collar around his throat that marks him as John Watson's property in the eyes of the law, if he didn't have to worry about going back to the Den ever again. 

"We should do this again sometime," Sarah adds, tucking her hands into her pockets as they step outside onto the pavement. 

"How about Thursday?"

"Thursday's excellent," she says, beaming, and then before he knows what's happening she's darted forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. Then she turns around and walks away.

John stares after her for a moment, only just managing to keep himself from lifting a hand to his cheek like an idiot. There's a surprising and welcome bit of warmth in his chest that hasn't been there for a long time. He's almost forgotten what it's like to be _liked_. For once, he doesn't even mind his cane as he heads back towards Baker Street. 

He thinks about Sarah the whole way back, about her kind blue eyes and her sweet smile, the way a dark brown curl has the tendency to brush against her right cheek, how she went out of her way to let him know about her concerns for Sherlock. She's never even met Sherlock, yet she's spent enough time thinking about the situation to be able to point out that John isn't handling it right. He's not sure why he finds that surprising, considering that Sarah has always been friendly and courteous to anyone who comes in for treatment. There are several slave owners in the area who bring their slaves to the surgery for that reason, just as there are probably several that don't.

But he couldn't see that before, and John Watson may be an idiot but he's not a fool: he knows exactly why. Sherlock's presence prevents him from sinking back into that everyday drudgery that was so consuming. It's impossible to feel as though his life is empty or meaningless when every morning there's someone sitting in the chair opposite him to remind him exactly why he's needed right now. Sherlock needs him, chose staying with him over his brother, and it's like a breath of fresh air to be _needed_. To be able to do something that no one else can, to _matter_.

His step is far lighter than normal as he unlocks the door to 221b Baker Street and slips inside. He wipes his feet on the mat and listens for a moment for the sound of voices. Hearing Mrs Hudson's voice coming from her flat, he knocks on the door and then opens it.

"Hello," he calls out, wanting Mrs Hudson to know that it's not a stranger. "I'm back. Sherlock? I'm going upstairs whenever you feel like coming up."

"Okay," Sherlock calls back, and he sounds so light-hearted that John can't help his smile widening.

He's just turning to head up the steps when there's a knock at the door behind him. He turns automatically, leaning on his cane as he swings his weight around and reaches out to open the door. The man standing on the doorstep is not at all familiar. He's a little taller than John and overweight, though nicely dressed, and it's so rare for them to have visitors that he immediately thinks that the man has been sent by Mycroft. John raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms, wondering what Sherlock's brother wants this time. Or what he couldn't be arsed to show up himself to ask for. At least this time they knocked on the door instead of bugging the flat.

"What does he want now?" he says flatly.

"I'm sorry?" the man says, looking confused. "Is this... are you John Watson? I wasn't sure if this was the right place, but then I saw you climbing the stairs. I was actually looking for - oh."

The man stops speaking suddenly, his gaze fastened to something over John's shoulder, and John glances back to see that Sherlock is standing in the doorway to Mrs Hudson's flat. His face has gone white and he's staring back at the man like he's just seen a ghost. John's first instinct is to push the guy back and slam the door in his face, and he would do just that but for one thing: in the time that Sherlock has spent with him, he has come to know exactly what Sherlock looks like when he's afraid. And this isn't fear. Curiosity, yes, and perhaps even a bit of shock, but not fear.

"It is you," the man says. "Sherlock!"

"Sir," Sherlock says, then he licks his lips and casts a quick look at John. "I mean -"

"You're not mine anymore, Sherlock, you can call me Mike."

It clicks, then, and John turns a hard stare on their visitor. "You're Michael Stamford."

Michael - Mike - grins and nods. "That's right. I was notified a couple of weeks ago that Sherlock had been purchased from the Den, but this is the first chance I've had to come and take a look at how he's doing."

"Sherlock?" John says, not taking his eyes off Mike, and he's fully prepared to use his cane as a weapon if need be.

"It's okay, John." Sherlock's voice is very soft, but carries a degree of certainty that makes John relax just a little bit. "You can let him in."

Reluctantly, John steps back and aside enough to let Mike enter the flat. The entrance hall suddenly seems too small for all of them and he shuffles towards Sherlock. Some of the colour is coming back into Sherlock's face now, but he still looks far too shaky for John's liking. He needs some tea and possibly something with sugar before he faints. 

"Mrs Hudson," he calls out. "Could we get some tea upstairs?"

Mrs Hudson's head appears instantly around the corner of her sitting room, where she's no doubt been listening. "Of course, dear," she says, shooting John a meaningful look and gesturing to the phone in her hand. He shakes his head imperceptibly but gives her a look back, pleased that she'll be on hand to call Scotland Yard if necessary.

Sometimes owners don't like having to sell their slaves to the Den. Even if the sale warrants them a profit or the erasure of a debt, they still consider that slave to be their property. And while it's not customary for the Den to notify all former owners of sales, if the right palms are sufficiently greased there is way to get that knowledge. Sherlock hasn't spoken much about his former owners, but John's heard enough horror stories about obsession and revenge that he makes Mike go up the stairs first and then follows immediately behind, wanting as much distance between him and Sherlock as possible.

If Mike is aware of what is going through John's head, he doesn't let on. If anything, his smile only broadens as he gets his first glimpse of the flat. "Oh now this is nice," he says approvingly, looking around the room openly. "I was so worried about you, Sherlock. I wondered who you would end up with when I dropped you off. But it seems I didn't have to worry at all, did I?"

John searches his memory, trying to remember what little Sherlock has said. He doesn't invite Mike to sit down. "You... had to sell him because you couldn't afford it? Your wife got sick?"

The cheerful smile on Mike's face falls. "Yes. Actually, she... she passed away a month ago."

Sherlock shifts, like he's going to take a step forward but stops himself before he can. "Miss Amelia is dead?" 

"Yes. Like I said, a month ago. The doctors did everything they could, but... she had breast cancer," he explains to John. "She was sick for a very long time. None of the treatments were working. That's actually why I bought Sherlock in the first place. She wasn't capable of staying at home by herself, and she needed someone who could take care of her and just... keep her company. Unfortunately, towards the end, her medical costs were too expensive and that's why I had to sell him. Amelia was furious with me, but I had to do what I could to make sure she was as pain free as possible."

It bothers John a little that Mike is talking about Sherlock like he's not even in the room, but he tries to push it aside. "I'm sorry for your loss. That must have been very difficult for you."

"It was. Losing someone even after you've been together for twenty years... well, it never seems like enough time, does it?" He links his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels. "I had actually intended to go back to the Den and buy Sherlock back after the funeral was over. It was one of the last things that Amelia asked of me, that I make sure he was taken care of. I would be happy to take him off your hands for the right sum."

The request itself isn't exactly uncommon. Slaves are passed about between owners all the time. There's very little legislation regarding the sale and purchase of a legal slave. All that's needed are the papers, and as soon as they're filed with the proper authorities it's done. But John still bristles. His initial opinion of Mike, that he didn't seem like such a bad sort, is rapidly deteriorating into anger and distrust. Here is this seemingly educated man talking about buying and selling Sherlock like it's nothing. Like Sherlock doesn't even get a say in the matter, like John could hand him over right now for a couple hundred pounds and all would still be right with the world. 

Not only would Lestrade kill him and Mycroft make sure that his body was never found, he wouldn't ever be able to sleep again at night.

"No," he says, perhaps a bit too sharply. "Sherlock is not for sale." The words taste awful.

"Oh, come now! I could give you a generous fee. I received my wife's insurance policy yesterday. How about -"

"I said no." John bites the words out, wishing that he had the gun that he keeps in his nightstand to really get his point across. "If Sherlock wanted to go with you, that would be one thing. Sherlock?"

"I'll stay here," Sherlock says instantly, the words running into each other from being spoken so quickly, but their meaning is easy to discern.

Mike looks a bit confused as he looks between them. "Sherlock, you are being treated well? Not being made to do anything you don't want to do?"

"I'm fine. I like it here. John is very kind." It sounds worryingly mechanic, like Sherlock is afraid Mike might cause a scene. Or go to the Den and argue his case, even if he doesn't have one.

John clears his throat. "I purchased Sherlock legally and I have no intent to sell him, now or in the future. I hope you understand that even if you were to try and involve the legal system, it wouldn't do you any good." At one point that might have been cause for actual concern, because sometimes even the legal system isn't as fair as it should be and the right judge might be sympathetic to Amelia's dying wish. But now there's Mycroft looming in the picture, and there is no doubt in John's mind that, should it go that far, Michael Stamford will simply disappear.

"God no, I don't have the money for that," Mike says, and it's obvious what he really means is that he doesn't care that much. He's done his duty by making the offer. "If you do decide to change your mind, please give me a shout. I'll leave you my card. I'd rather have first dibs on him. For Amelia's sake." He smiles cheerfully and takes a small white card from his coat pocket, which he places on the table when John makes no move to take it.

"Okay," John says flatly when it becomes clear a response is necessary, planning to burn that card the second Mike is out the door.

"For what it's worth, you do look like you're doing well, Sherlock. You finally have a bit of meat on your bones, even if your clothes do leave something to be desired." Mike chuckles a bit.

It takes a lot not to just punch him in the face, because Sherlock is still wearing Mrs Hudson's late husband's cast-offs, and while they might not fit perfectly, it's the best they've got at the moment and it's a hell of a lot better than what Sherlock was wearing - or not wearing - at the Den. "I've had a long morning. I think it's time that you go," he says through gritted teeth.

"Oh, of course," Mike says, though he frowns. "Sherlock, good to see you again. Mr Watson -"

"Doctor Watson," Sherlock says.

Mike raises his eyebrows. "Doctor Watson. Thank you for your time. I'll see myself out. Do remember to give me a call if you decide to sell Sherlock." He tips his head to them both and walks out of the room. John listens to the sound of him going downstairs and then of the door opening and closing before he relaxes.

"What a prick," he mutters.

"You could have sold me back to him. If you wanted."

John turns so sharply that his thigh cramps and sends a bolt of sharp pain shooting into his lower back. He freezes in place, forcing himself to in and breathe very slowly until it lessens. By the time he blinks back to himself, capable of at least moving without passing out on the floor, Sherlock is standing right in front of him with a painkiller and a glass of water. The painkiller, at least, is familiar. He eyes the pill for a second and then sighs.

"How'd you know they were mine?" he asks resignedly, taking the pill and putting it into his mouth. He doesn't like taking them. But after months of living with chronic pain, even his stubborn nature has unwound to the point where he knows that sometimes it's the lesser of two evils, particularly when the alternative is spending three or four days in bed in unbearable pain. He spent enough time in bed in the hospital.

"Why else would you have prescription narcotics around the flat?" Sherlock asks in that quietly reasonable way of his. "Even as a doctor, that's not the sort of thing you would be likely to keep here. Plus, the first time you gave them to me you fetched them out of your bedroom, not your doctor's kit. And pills aren't commonly kept in the container you put them in, which suggests that you didn't want me to see the original container you got them in... which, I suspect, would have your name and prescription on it."

"That's amazing," John says, impressed. It's not the first time Sherlock has come up with a theory and been absolutely correct, but it never ceases to impress. He hadn't even realized that Sherlock was paying attention to his actions during that first night, though in retrospect that's foolish. Of course a slave would be on guard around a new master.

Sherlock flushes, ducking his head a little in self-conscious embarrassment as he takes the glass back from John. Hesitantly, he says, "I've always known how to do that. I don't remember where I learned. Mycroft, perhaps. It's a talent that served me well."

John shifts, the tightened muscles in his thigh making him wince, much of the awe disappearing when he's reminded of how exactly Sherlock would have had to hone this skill in the first place. No doubt his ability to figure out what a master really wanted has kept him out of trouble when it really counted. "I'm glad that it did, then. I... hate to think of you being treated poorly. Was Mike good to you?"

Seemingly surprised by the question, Sherlock still answers readily enough. "I suppose so. He was honest when he said that he bought me as company for his wife. I learned a little about medical procedures while I was with her. She needed the help of someone who was capable of giving her pills, helping her to bathe and dress, talking to get her mind off the pain, but they couldn't afford a nurse. I spent more time with her than I did with him. She was... kind. She liked the fact that I know how to speak French. She used to ask me to sing to her. When she found out I know how to play violin, she rented one and I would play that for hours instead."

"You can play the violin?" John repeats.

"Yes."

"Do you... like playing?"

"Yes."

A violin is definitely not something John can afford. He knows, just based on the music lessons their mum forced Harry to take when they were younger, how expensive instruments can be. But he makes a note to talk to Mycroft about it just the same. Any hobby that Sherlock wants to take up or continue should be encouraged as much as possible. "Maybe you could play for me sometime, if you felt like it."

A thin smile twitches at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. He says, "You could have sold me."

Right. John closes his eyes briefly, exhaling, and when he looks again, Sherlock won't meet his gaze. He takes a careful step closer, reaching out to cup Sherlock's chin and tip his head up. It's a little more intimate than he's really comfortable with, but Sherlock needs to hear this. "Sherlock, I will never sell you because I don't consider you to be mine to sell. You're my friend. As long as you want to stay here with me, you're welcome to. Had you wanted to go with Mike, I would have been okay with it. If you ever want to leave with your brother, that's okay too. It's your decision. The only thing I know for certain is that you are _never_ going back to the Den. That's non-negotiable."

Sherlock searches his face for several seconds, his eyes wide and earnest. "What about -"

"There is no scenario you could come up with where I would even consider selling you," John interrupts, because he really does not want to hear what motivated Sherlock's masters to do that in the past. "Not even if you set the flat on fire and it burns to the ground. I'll be mad at you, yeah. I might yell at you, or not talk to you at all, or leave for a day to get my head on straight. I would come back, though, and when I did we would sort whatever happened out together. I know this is probably hard for you to understand, but as far as I'm concerned _you are not a slave_."

They stand there and stare at each other in silence, John willing Sherlock to absorb the words, until his leg begins to tremble from the strain. Sherlock blinks as he takes a half-step back, offering John his arm. And after only a little hesitation, much as he hates to, John takes it. He leans on Sherlock as they hobble towards the sofa, because he was telling the truth and he thinks that Sherlock knows for sure John doesn't just want him here, he _needs_ Sherlock here.

As Mrs Hudson comes bustling up with some tea, he thinks it's a good thing.


	2. Chapter 2

There are mornings when Sherlock wakes up tense, not daring to move a muscle, using all of his senses to figure out where he is before he risks letting anyone who might be in the room know that he is awake. The only time that this doesn't happen is when he steals into John's bedroom and falls asleep in the chair that's right across from John's bed. The first time he did that there was no chair, and Sherlock ended up sitting on the floor all night. Which didn't really bother him, God knows he'd had far worse in terms of discomfort, but bothered John so much that by nightfall a comfortable chair had mysteriously appeared.

John still doesn't like it, of course. He wrinkles his nose in the morning, and if he's in a particularly bad mood he'll jerk the covers over his head and ask Sherlock to leave before he'll climb out of bed, but he doesn't startle as bad as he used to. And Sherlock takes the chair as a sign that it's really okay, even if John doesn't want to admit it. Being in the same room as John is soothing. Even before he opens his eyes, he can hear the sound of John's breath and smell his scent (a hint of chemicals, tea and, most strong, deodorant), and he can feel the give of the chair beneath his back and buttocks. It's not soft, but the fabric is well-worn and comforting.

On the morning after Mike's visit, John is awake when Sherlock creeps into his room. Neither of them say a word as Sherlock settles in the chair and draws John's robe closer around his body. It's later than he usually comes in, but this night is different: John hasn't slept well either. The sheets are mussed from his tossing and turning and, when he rolls over to look at Sherlock, his face is lined with exhaustion. Sherlock blinks at him, pressing his hands into the chair, waiting to hear what John will say first. 

"Morning," John says finally, the word ending on a high-pitched note when his jaw splits wide from a yawn. He rubs sleepily at one eye. "Did you get any sleep?"

"No," Sherlock says, having learned long ago that this a question that John - always a doctor - desires an honest answer to. Sleeping is easier here than it has been anywhere else, now that he's beginning to trust that no one will come for him while his guard is down. But Mike's visit made all of those uglier memories come rushing back, as though they had happened yesterday and not years ago. Mike may have been kind to him, but there were too many masters that weren't. 

"Me either. I think I drifted off once or twice, but I'm pretty sure I only slept for a couple of hours total. God, what a night."

Sherlock casts about for something reassuring to say. This is not his usual area of expertise, but John is appreciative of effort. He settles on, "Perhaps you will sleep better tonight. Your face is flushed; you were warm. Take the top blanket off your bed."

"Yeah, I will," John says after a pause, his expression twisting with something that Sherlock can't identify. "You must be tired, too."

"I'm fine." Sherlock lets one shoulder rise and fall in a half-shrug, the familiar rush of anxiety trampled by triumph when John just yawns again and nods at him. Shrugging is something relatively new to him. Being a slave means using your words, even if those words are restricted to "yes master" and "no master" - though hardly the latter, not unless you wanted to be disciplined severely. Most masters liked to hear verbal proof of their slave's submission.

"We'll both be knackered by tonight," is all that John says as he flips the blankets back and scoots over to the edge of his bed. He puts his feet down and stretches, rubbing half-heartedly at his shoulder. 

There's damage to that shoulder, though how much is impossible to determine unless Sherlock has the opportunity to touch and see for himself. He's often been tempted to offer. One of his masters had schooled him in the art of massage, citing that his long, thin fingers made him a natural, and he thinks he could help ease the tension in the muscle. The question is whether John would allow him to do it, and so far he has not gathered enough courage to ask. Instead he stays quiet, cataloguing as John stands up, scratching his belly, and turns to yank the blankets back over his bed. He makes it quickly, tugging the sheets back into pristine order the way he always does as soon as he gets up.

"There, that's done," John says, tossing his pillow into place at the head of the bed. He slips on a pair of jeans and an old shirt that's stained on one shoulder. "I could go for a strong cup of tea, I think. What do you feel like having for breakfast this morning? I wonder if Mrs Hudson has - Jesus _Christ_ , Mycroft, what the hell have I told you about sneaking around the flat?"

Mycroft looks up from where he's seated at the table with wide, bland eyes, as though he can't possibly imagine why John is clutching his chest. Across from him, Lestrade props his chin on his hand and says, "Sorry about that, John. We would have knocked, but frankly I wasn't sure that you would have let us in."

"It's not even nine," John snaps, which basically means that he wouldn't have. Sherlock hides a smile, pulling John's robe closer around him as he eases into the room. John stomps over to the stove, though it's obvious he's not as mad as he's pretending to be. He just likes to put on a bit of a show. "What are you doing here so early, anyway? Don't you have to be off running the British government or whatever?"

"I'm on my way to work," Lestrade offers when it becomes clear that Mycroft isn't going to respond. "I'm here by special request. Mycroft wants to take Sherlock on a shopping trip."

Sherlock lifts his head, surprised. "I have clothing."

"You have cast-offs," Mycroft says, with a little curl to his mouth, as though the very word is abhorrent to him never mind the clothing itself. "And they do not fit you very well. Not to mention, you don't have proper shoes, or a jacket, or even a dressing gown of your own."

Suddenly all of the eyes in the room are on him, and Sherlock feels very self-conscious. In the past, so much attention meant that a punishment was not far behind. Anxiously, he smoothes down the sleeve of John's robe. Technically Mycroft is right. John's robe is too short in the sleeves and not nearly long enough. It cuts off around his knees, making it difficult for him to tuck his feet inside when he's sitting or laying on the sofa. Also, there's too much material in the shoulders. But he likes it all the same. The material is worn and soft and it smells like John in a way that new things won't.

"It's not a bad thing, Sherlock," Lestrade says in that gentle tone of voice he only uses with Sherlock. In spite of himself, Sherlock likes the sound of it. "Everyone gets new clothes, and Mycroft's right. You deserve to have your own things that actually fit you. But that's not to say you can't borrow John's if you feel the need to, right John?"

John takes a big gulp of the tea he's poured himself and smiles crookedly. "What would I do with all of my clothing back? I can't wear it all at once, anyway."

"It will be expensive," Sherlock says to the floor. He remembers helping Amelia Stamford shop for new clothing online, when she was too weak to get out of bed and her old things didn't fit her anymore because she had lost too much weight. Clothing is very costly, particularly the kind of clothing that Mycroft likes to wear. The thought of so much money being spent on him makes his stomach hurt. He'd gone naked for years, because a slave's nudity didn't bother anyone. He's only just become accustomed to wearing the things Mrs Hudson lent to him. Having clothing of his own comes with a different set of standards. He twists a bit of a fabric with his fingers.

"I can afford it. Please, Sherlock."

There's a note in Mycroft's voice that makes Sherlock look up automatically. His brother is watching him. 

"When you were little, you loved having new things," Mycroft says, trying a smile that doesn't hide the pain in his eyes. "I used to take you to the shops every time I came home and buy you something new. I want to do that again, if you'll let me."

How can Sherlock say no to that, when it's clearly what everyone wants? He nods just once and Mycroft actually smiles for real this time. Lestrade and John look happy too. It takes the edge off the churning in his belly and he sits up a bit. "Where is your computer?"

Mycroft raises his eyebrows, a look of brief confusion flickering across his face, replaced quickly by comprehension. "No, Sherlock. Not online shopping. We'll go to a store."

The last time Sherlock was outside, he was following John home from the Den. Since then, John hasn't made any attempts to make him leave the flat. Again, Sherlock looks to him, half-expecting John to protest. But he doesn't. John just shrugs and drinks the rest of his tea in several deep gulps that will probably burn the roof of his mouth and lead to him complaining later when the remainder of Mrs Hudson's roast dinner doesn't taste very good.

"That's fine with me. I'll pop into the surgery for a while. One of the doctors is going on maternity leave soon, and I want to put in a good word with Sarah. Sherlock, you sure you're okay with going shopping? You don't have to, you know."

Sherlock hesitates for a moment. Going shopping will make Mycroft happy. It means John doesn't have to worry about him while he's gone, and Mrs Hudson won't be burdened by staying with him while John is out. Result: agreeing to go shopping, even if it means leaving the flat, is the best outcome. "I'll go."

"Then go get dressed," Lestrade says. "You're going to drop me off on the way by and I don't want to be late."

He gets up immediately, because he knows what happens to slaves that make other people late, and leaves the room. The room set aside from him is up the stairs, mostly because on days when John has a lot of pain in his hip he can't manage the steps easily. Sherlock likes that. It means that no one can sneak up on him; he became familiar with the sound of footsteps on the stairs within the first day of being here. And because no one else comes up here, he knows that anyone on the stairs is coming for him. 

He takes a pair of jeans and a shirt from the closet and gets dressed. The jeans are a little too short in the leg and are too big at the waist, but he likes the feel of them against his skin. They're sturdy. He pulls the shirt on and leaves John's robe neatly folded on his dresser. Then he goes back downstairs. Lestrade is waiting for him at the bottom, holding a pair of shoes.

"These are an old pair of mine I brought for you to wear, since I figured John's would be too small. Why don't you sit down and you can see if they fit?" He gestures to the chair and Sherlock obeys, not expecting Lestrade to drop to one knee right in front of him. Sherlock stares down at the man, stricken.

Lestrade either doesn't notice or pretends not to, taking Sherlock's foot in hand and carefully guiding it first into a sock and then into the shoe. Then he does the same for the other foot, before he carefully ties them both. He frowns a little when he can't get a finger in between Sherlock's heel and the shoe. The fit is a little tight, pinching at the toe, but not unbearably uncomfortable. Sherlock wiggles his toes, disliking how confining the shoe is. Lestrade glances up at him and chuckles.

"Sorry, sunshine. They're a bit tighter than I thought. Well, I'll tell Mycroft to make shoes your first stop, okay? And listen, Sherlock." He puts a hand on Sherlock's knee. His palm is warm. "Don't let Mycroft talk you into anything you're uncomfortable with. He gets a bit carried away when his mind is stuck on something. If you feel uncomfortable or scared today and you want to go home, don't be afraid to say something to him."

Sherlock nods, biting his bottom lip. He wonders if Lestrade knows that the last time he actually said no to someone, he was tied to the floor and whipped until his back was bloody. And then he was left there for at least a day, until another slave snuck in and set him free. His mind tells him that John and Mycroft won't do that, but his body and instincts tell him that no one can be trusted. Pushing the limits is one thing, but outright disobeying or breaking the rules is how slaves end up dead. He learned at a very young age that no one cares if slaves go missing.

But even though he doesn't dare say anything to that effect, Lestrade looks at him very sadly like he already knows what Sherlock is thinking. He takes something out of his pocket, never moving his hand from Sherlock's leg, and shows it to Sherlock. It's small and silver, discrete enough to fit in the palm of someone's hand. It's a mobile phone. Sherlock's never really used one before, though he has had the opportunity to examine John's. The buttons had fascinated him, even though John seems to find them more of an annoyance than anything else. Much to his amazement, Lestrade holds the phone out to him like he expects Sherlock to take it.

"I brought you this, too. It's a present. It belongs to you and no one can take it away from you. Not John, not Mycroft, not even me. It's yours. Go on, take it." Lestrade waits patiently until Sherlock slowly takes the phone. It feels very light in his hand. "Do you know how to use it?"

"Yes," Sherlock whispers, staring down at the phone. He's not sure whether he's elated or terrified. He can't remember ever having owned something before. The flat and everything in it, including Sherlock himself, belongs to John. Even the clothing he wears belongs to Mrs Hudson, and if she were to ask for it back he would strip where he stood and thank her for having allowed him to borrow it for as long as she did. But this...

"Good. Just so you know, I've pre-programmed some numbers into it. John's number is speed dial number one. I'm number two. Mycroft is number three. Anthea is number four. Mrs Hudson is number five." Lestrade's fingers are careful as he points to each number. "So if you ever need to call us, you just press the right number and then hit the call button and the phone will do all the work for you. Don't ever hesitate to call any of us, Sherlock, I mean that. Especially me. It doesn't matter if it's day or night, if you need me you call. Got it?"

He nods again, speechless. His hand is trembling so hard that he has to bring his other hand up to cradle the phone, just in case he drops it. He wants to say thank you, but the words won't make it past his tongue, and he hates that. Some of his old masters used to find it amusing to force him to say thank you for the most painful of punishments, or for going hungry for a day or more, or for an ice cold shower in the middle of winter. They liked seeing him fumble the words out, the gratitude for being used and owned. That he can't say it now, when he's never felt so much gratitude in his life, is maddening.

Despite that, Lestrade seems to understand. He smiles and squeezes Sherlock's leg again, then stands up and gently ruffles his hair. "Good. Now I've got to get to work or I really will be late, and I have this colleague who thinks that it's okay to dump her paperwork on my desk if I'm more than thirty minutes out. Mycroft!" He raises his voice. "Come on!"

Mycroft comes to the door a few seconds later with John on his heels. Lestrade and Mycroft go downstairs together, leaving Sherlock alone with John. Hesitantly, half-expecting John to take the phone away, he shows it to him.

John just grins. "Mycroft said Greg was going to bring you one. Good, be nice to have someone who's actually decent with electronics for a change. God knows I'll never be able to figure them out. You have fun with your brother, okay?"

"I will," Sherlock says quietly, standing up. He follows John out the door and down the stairs, the weight of the phone comforting in his sweaty hands. Mycroft and Lestrade are already outside, but they're not in the car. They're just standing there on the pavement, waiting for him. The hair on the back of Sherlock's neck prickles as he looks outside and, for a split second, the breath catches in his throat. _Outside_ has never been kind to him.

But they're waiting, however patiently, and Sherlock doesn't want to make Lestrade even more late. So he forces himself to step forward, passing through the outer doorway of 221b and out onto the step. The boots click against the step and he freezes at the unfamiliar sound, his stomach flipping. All that happens is Lestrade raises a hand to beckon him forward. He shuffles down the steps and towards the car, allowing Lestrade to guide him into the backseat. Lestrade sits beside him, while Mycroft takes a seat on the opposite side beside Anthea. As soon as the door is shut, the car pulls away smoothly and joins the early morning London traffic.

As promised, the car stops by Scotland Yard to drop Lestrade off first. He says his goodbyes to Anthea and Sherlock, leans across the seat to press a quick kiss to Mycroft's mouth, and then slips out of the car. Sherlock turns his head to watch Lestrade go, noticing how Lestrade straightens his shoulders and walks with a longer gait as he strides into the building, likely out of a subconscious desire to make everyone around him realize that he is the one in charge. And it works, there are some younger officers standing around out front who all come to attention and nod at him respectfully as Lestrade walks by. 

"We're going to stop for shoes first," Anthea says, and Sherlock looks back at her. Her eyes are focused on her Blackberry, but, as though sensing his attention, she glances up at him. "Your feet hurt, don't they?"

'It's fine," Sherlock says automatically, curling his toes again. The shoes pinch, especially at the tip and on the sides, but it's not bad enough to warrant a special stop. But he's not sure how to convey that, so he keeps quiet as the car comes to another stop.

The three of them disembark, and Mycroft leads the way into a very posh, high end store. The colours are all soft and muted and the furniture - a sofa and two chairs at the entrance, with more chairs scattered through the store - is genuine leather. There's very quiet music playing, just loud enough to make the quality soundproofing obvious. Sherlock detects the sound of a violin and cello, with a viola popping in on occasion, and he focuses on that while Mycroft talks to the clerk that approaches them. He doesn't recognize the song that's playing, but he likes it. His fingers itch with the desire to find a violin and begin replicating the melody to the best of his ability.

Anthea touches his arm instead, guiding him to a chair. He feels very uncomfortable sitting down while she and Mycroft are standing, but it's a little better when Anthea takes a seat beside him. The clerk comes back and kneels down on the floor before him. He jerks back, unwittingly pulling his feet out of her reach, and then freezes as his skin prickles cold. It feels so _wrong_ to be sitting while someone else kneels before him, bad enough when it was Lestrade but now a stranger, but at the same time it's what he was told to do and now he's disobeyed an indirect order and no one ever cares if it wasn't explicitly spoken, an order is still an order -

"Sherlock," Anthea says. Her hand tightens on his arm. "It's okay. She's just trying to measure your feet so she can see what size shoe your need. Let her do her job. You're safe."

The clerk is too professional to give them both a strange look, but Sherlock can tell from the set of her shoulders and her slightly too tight grip on his ankle that she's not a big fan of her current customers. But she's also smart enough to not say a word about it. He also stays quiet, trying to control his breathing and the faint tremble of his hands from the pervading sense of _wrongness_ , letting her slip his shoe and sock off and measure his foot. 

"Size 11," the clerk says at last, sitting back on her heels. "Mr Holmes said you'd be wanting one of pretty much everything?"

"That's right. Even a pair of trainers," Anthea answers. "Just send a selection along and what we don't need, we'll return. We'll also take a pair of shoes for him to wear today as well. Charge it to this account." Even though she's not carrying a pocketbook and doesn't have any pockets on her sleek dress, she produces a credit card and hands it to the woman. "You can deliver it to 221b Baker Street as soon as the order is ready."

The clerk takes the card and says, "I'll bring out a selection for him to choose from for today, then. Socks as well?"

"Yes." Anthea waits until the clerk is gone, then turns to Sherlock. "You're doing very well. I'm sorry, we should have warned you what it would be like."

"She startled me," Sherlock confesses, feeling like he needs to explain his actions, even though excuses have never served him well in the past. But Anthea just gives him a sad smile.

"I know she did. Why don't you take off your other shoe? When she brings the shoes out, you'll be trying them on."

"Why?" Sherlock asks, honestly baffled even as he follows the directions. It seems like a lot of work for no reason. Lestrade gave him shoes for when he needs to leave the flat. The shoes are serviceable and are a big improvement over having to go barefoot on the cold pavement - although if Lestrade wants the shoes back, Sherlock is perfectly capable of doing that. He certainly doesn't understand what the point is of trying on more than one pair of shoes.

"So that you can make sure they fit," Anthea says very gently. "We don't want the shoes to pinch or to rub against your heels when you walk. You want something that is comfortable to wear for long periods of time. Don't worry about the cost. Mr Holmes has plenty of money."

At the mention of his brother, Sherlock looks around and realizes that Mycroft is gone. "Where is he?"

"He knows the owner of the shop and went back to have a word with her. That's why I'm here, to keep you company while you're shopping." Anthea leans in closer, her hair brushing against his shoulder as she whispers, "Between you and me, love, you got the better end of the deal. Your brother is terrible at shopping. Doesn't have the patience for it. Five minutes in and he starts acting like a toddler. There's a reason why he gets all of his clothing made."

Sherlock smiles hesitantly because it seems like Anthea is expecting him to, but he understands why Mycroft doesn't have the patience for this. It all seems very pointless. He's used to long periods of time on his knees or in the corner, but that had a purpose: obeying an order or punishment. But he already has clothing and shoes, so he doesn't need to be here. Still, they wait until the clerk comes back with a stack of boxes. She sets them down near Sherlock and takes out the first pair: black and polished. She gives them to him with a pair of new socks.

A little relieved that least she's not trying to put the shoes on for him, Sherlock puts the socks on and then slides his feet into the shoes. The material is stiff, but doesn't pinch his toes. He can wiggle them with no problem. He looks at Anthea, and she makes a gesture for him to stand up. He obeys and then walks the length of the shop when she gestures again. The shoes stay on his feet.

"How do they feel?" says the clerk.

"Fine."

"Do you want to try any other pairs?"

Sherlock looks at Anthea, but she doesn't answer. But the clerk doesn't look like she wants him to say yes, so he says, "No."

"We'll take these ones, thank you," Anthea says, standing up and following the clerk to the register. While they pay, Sherlock examines his new shoes. He's never had a brand new item of clothing before that he can remember. It's unsettling. The shoes look expensive, and he can't help wondering how much they cost no matter how much money Anthea claims that Mycroft has.

"Those look very nice, Sherlock."

At the sound of Mycroft's voice, he turns to look at his brother. "Thank you."

"We'll give Lestrade back these," Anthea chimes in, collecting the two discarded shoes and socks from the floor. "The rest of your shoes should arrive at Baker Street by tomorrow morning, Sherlock. John can help you try them on, and whatever you don't want to keep I'll return to the store."

Why does he need more than one pair of shoes? Sherlock swallows back the question, settling for a nod, and follows them out of the store. He's expecting to get back into the car, even hopes for it, but it's not to be. Mycroft makes no move to approach the car and the driver doesn't get out to open the door.

Anthea's phone chimes as she puts the shoes into the boot, and she glances at the screen and frowns. "Sir, we have a minor situation."

"What is it?"

"Just a disagreement about that contract we discussed this morning," Anthea says, her voice full of meaning. "I'm capable of handling the issue if you'd like to continue on with your afternoon."

Mycroft hesitates, but nods. "Make sure you contact -"

"The Russians, yes sir, I know." She gives them both a smile. "I'll send the car back as soon as it drops me off. Good luck with shopping."

The idea of shopping without Anthea there is not a pleasant one. Sherlock watches as the driver jumps out to open the door for her, then hurries back around to the other side of the car. In less than a minute the car is pulling out into traffic, and then it's down the street and turning a corner so that he can't see it all. Now it's just him and his brother, who looks as uncomfortable as Sherlock feels.

"Come along, then, Sherlock," says Mycroft finally. "Let's continue. You desperately need new clothing."

Sherlock follows him to a little store that's about a block up from the shoe store. This one is between a restaurant and a clothing store, but it looks so small that most people just walk by. Just like the shoe store, expense is written into everything Sherlock sees, from the highly polished floors to the paintings on the walls to the price tag hanging off one of the dresses in the windows. It's also completely quiet, with no music at all, and his heart starts to race. He jumps when an unexpected voice suddenly calls out to them.

"Ah, Mr Holmes! So lovely to see you again."

"Good morning, Hebert," Mycroft says, turning to face the man who has just walked out from behind a curtain. "I need a complete wardrobe for my brother."

"Your brother?" The man - Hebert - turns a studious eye onto Sherlock, looking him up and down and then slowly walking around him. He fiddles with the measuring tape draped around his neck, wrinkling his nose. "Certainly, what he's wearing is fit all wrong. Are you looking for jeans as well?" He plucks at the fabric of Sherlock's jeans distastefully.

"I believe so, yes."

"This will be a challenge! But for you, Mr Holmes, we can do anything. Let's just get you measured, young Mr Holmes, this way." Hebert shows them both through a curtain into the innermost part of the shop. Everything is smooth and clean with bright lighting that makes Sherlock's eyes ache.

"Just inside there, please," Herbert says, pointing to an area separated by another set of curtains. "Are you looking for anything bespoke?"

"Shirts. At least one suit, preferably two, and trousers. Possibly evening wear as well. Everything else just needs to be fitted," Mycroft says. 

"Indeed, indeed. Up here, please, now just stand still..." Again, Hebert looks him up and down. His expression is critical, taking note of every flaw.

It's the same way the guards at the Den used to look at him, the same way that potential masters would look at him whenever he was dragged out to be put on display. The lights would be turned up until he was almost blind, the air so cold he'd be left shivering for warmth, while their greedy eyes raked over every inch of him, trying to decide if he was worthy of being their newest piece of merchandise. Sometimes, if the guards were feeling particularly cruel, he would hit or beaten with a whip just so that the masters could hear what his screams sounded like.

When a hand brushes against his sleeve, fingertips trailing across his wrist, Sherlock's chest locks up. He can't breathe. He wants nothing more than to run away and hide, but hiding means that the punishment will be _so much worse_. But how can he stand still when his legs are stiff, his whole body screaming with the desire to run, to find a safe place, even though for a slave no such place exists.

Someone says his name, loud and sharp, and Sherlock's head snaps up to meet Mycroft's gaze. He stares at his brother for almost a full minute, struggling to recognize him, to reconcile Mycroft's presence in the Den. He can't. His legs are very weak and when Mycroft grips his arm, pulling him over to a chest and pushing him down, he collapses.

He's vaguely aware of Mycroft on the phone, speaking to someone, but any attempt to focus on what his brother is saying just makes his head spin worse. The bright lights of the shop, the chill in the air, the feel of the cold fabric under his fingertips... none of it seems real, like it's something his mind dreamed up as a desperate attempt to get away from the Den. He shivers, curling in on himself.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says again, standing over him now. A warm blanket settles around his shoulders, thick and plush, and he grabs onto it like a lifeline. "Are you okay?"

He knows what Mycroft wants to hear, but his mouth refuses to cooperate. His fingers tighten in their grip on the blanket and Mycroft's mouth presses into a thin line. He looks angry. This too, is familiar, and for a moment it's not his brother but a guard or a master, just waiting for him the opportunity to slap him across the face or put the whip across his back. Sherlock flinches, trembling, and hastily ducks his head.

Mycroft doesn't say anything, but he doesn't move either, not until an undeterminable amount of time later when the curtains are swept aside and Lestrade barrels in. "Oh god," he says, looking at Sherlock.

"He won't speak to me," Mycroft is saying, and there's a strange, jagged note to his voice that's never been there before. "I don't know what's wrong with him - I think he had a flashback and nearly went into shock, but now -"

"It's okay, My," Lestrade says. "I called John. He should be here soon. Why don't you go wait for him, okay?"

He drops down on his heels beside Sherlock, and at that angle they can look at each other. Lestrade smiles tentatively, though there's something awful about his face. "Hey, you. How you doing?"

Sherlock licks his lips. "Fine," he whispers.

"You don't look fine. You scared your brother terribly. He said you were having a panic attack."

Tears sting Sherlock's eyes. Lestrade swears softly and leans up, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's body. "Oh, sunshine, don't cry. I'm right here. It's okay. I'm here."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock chokes out.

"Don't be sorry. There's nothing to be sorry for. You can't help the way you reacted." Lestrade strokes his hair. His hands are big and warm. He smells of cologne. "I think this was just too much for you, too soon."

"I got new shoes," Sherlock says, though he's not sure why he says it, and Lestrade leans back just enough to be able to see them.

"So you did. They're lovely."

"Where's John?"

"He's coming, baby," Lestrade says, hugging him again. "He's coming."

It turns out he's not lying, either. Lestrade stays there with him right up until the curtains are thrust aside for a second time and John rushes in, looking panicked. Sherlock's legs are still wobbly, but somehow he still manages to stand up. His eyes sting again when John hugs him, solid and hard, and this time tears run down his face.

"I'm going to go see to Mycroft," Lestrade says, "but if you need me, I'll be right outside."

"Thanks, Greg," John says. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

It's easier to shake his head when his face is pressed against John's jumper. "The Den."

"The Den?" John repeats. "You... oh, you mean this place reminds you of... Oh, _Sherlock_. Come on, we're leaving."

With John's arms around him, Sherlock makes it to the door, outside and back into the car. He curls up around John, hiding his face again. Mycroft and Lestrade join them and the car starts off, but it's a much more sombre drive back to 221b Baker Street, the silence broken only by a soft discussion between John and Lestrade. When the car stops, only John gets out with him. 

John has to help him up the stairs. As soon as Sherlock is back inside the flat, he feels an overwhelming amount of relief. He didn't realize he'd come to associate the flat with a place of safety, but he has. He sinks down onto the sofa, still clutching the blanket around his shoulders. John sits down beside him, apparently not minding the iron grip that Sherlock has on his arm.

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Sherlock keeps his eyes closed, letting his other senses reassure him that he's back in the flat. The faint smell of the roast they had for dinner last night and the stronger scent of the tea John would have had this morning. The sound of the cat that lives next door howling again, and that of Mrs Hudson's television playing her soaps. The feel of the sofa's material below him, and of John's jacket under his fingertips.

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock starts a little, because that's supposed to be something that _he_ says, not John. He opens his eyes and turns his head slightly.

John sighs. "I'm so damn sorry, Sherlock. I seem to be fucking this up no matter what I do. I thought it might be a little early for a shopping trip, but then Sarah told me she thought I was keeping too close a handle on you so I didn't say anything. Did you even want to go?"

He considers the question carefully, because this seems important to John. Part of him just wants to say a simple yes or no, but even that's a potential minefield. In the end, he forces himself to speak the truth: "I... didn't mind. I don't understand why I need new clothes. And I... didn't like going outside of the house without you."

"I should have gone with you," John says, shaking his head at himself. "Mycroft wanted to buy you new clothes because it's important for you to have things that belong to _you_. Not just things that are borrowed or that are second hand. But we could've handled this better. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Sherlock mutters.

"No, it's not," John says under his breath. Louder, he adds, "Are you okay? You're still awfully pale, and you're trembling."

"I'm tired."

"Not surprising. Neither of us slept well last night, you didn't eat breakfast this morning and panic attacks can be draining." John squeezes his arm gently. "Do you want me to make some tea? And I think there's some biscuits left, it would be good for you to eat something."

Sherlock nods, too exhausted to speak anymore, willing to do whatever John wants. He stays on the sofa while John goes to make tea, and when John brings him a cup he drinks the whole thing and eats three biscuits without prompting. By the time he's done, he's so tired the room is spinning.

"I can help you upstairs - " John starts to say, but Sherlock grabs his arm. The thought of being so separate from John is unbearable.

"Okay, okay, calm down. I have an idea." John helps him to stand up and they shuffle slowly down the hall to John's bedroom. Sherlock is expecting to be dumped into the chair. Instead, John helps him across to the bed and, when Sherlock just stares at him in confusion, gently pushes him down onto the pillows. He takes Sherlock's new shoes off, then lays down on the bed beside him, watching Sherlock warily, ready to get up again immediately at the slightest hint this isn't okay.

But the bed is easily large enough to accommodate the both of them with no contact, and having John this close to him is actually very soothing. Sherlock blinks at him and then sighs, letting his eyes slip shut. He feels John shifting around, then a blanket is pulled up over him, and John murmurs something as he settles back down. It's the quickest and easiest slide into sleep Sherlock has ever known.

**Author's Note:**

> Visit my [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/).


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